


Dorset and Broak

by ErrantAdventure



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole
Genre: Galactic Empire, Intelligence - Freeform, Nar Shaddaa, New Republic, Pilots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-07-28 19:31:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16248362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErrantAdventure/pseuds/ErrantAdventure
Summary: Dorset Konnair has moved on from Polearm Squadron after the Zsinj campaign. She has new work and, soon, new allies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tspofnutmeg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tspofnutmeg/gifts).



Rebuilding was never easy, but it was all the harder to rebuild again, and again, and again. Dorset Konnair had had to rebuild her life when her father had taken off and let his family struggling. She’d had to rebuild it again when Polearm Squadron had been devastated at the Battle of Selaggis. And now, after two years, she thought she might finally have everything rebuilt after the forces of the reborn Emperor razed half of Coruscant, including her family home, and left billions homeless and bereft—not to mention billions and billions more on other worlds.

She keyed in her code to open the door of her new apartment, which she shared with her mother as of last month. The process of getting her homeless mother housed by Coruscant Emergency Relief Services had been arduous—arduous even for her, a decorated military veteran and influential officer of the Special Missions branch of Starfighter Command. _I can’t begin understand what the less-connected citizens of Coruscant have been through these past two years._

Tammin Konnair was in the living room, sketching on a large piece of canvas as the news played on the viewscreen beyond her easel. Her graying black hair was piled high on her head, as it often was, and she sat cross-legged in her chair, leaning over with her tongue out as she focused on her work. A reporter was talking about the latest news from Hutt Space as Dorset walked in, but Tammin was paying no attention—and didn’t seem to notice her daughter’s arrival either.

“Hi, mom,” Dorset said, kicking off her boots at the front door before heading into the living room. The older woman didn’t budge, only grunting in response. That was normal. Tammin worked hard, these days. She always had, to be fair, but when she was sketching and painting for Coruscant’s elites she could afford to take breaks. Now, though, many of those elites were gone, dead, or broke in the wake of Coruscant’s long siege. There were few large commissions to go around, and much more small-scale work. Tammin struggled to keep up.

Dorset’s pay was decent, but it wasn’t enough for a two-bedroom apartment anywhere near Military HQ. Emergency Relief had gotten them this apartment, but they weren’t still paying for it—no, Dorset and her mother had taken over rent a few months ago, and Tammin hadn’t let up her torrent of work since.

Dorset took a seat on the couch, watching the news that Tammin was ignoring. The Deep Core warlords had become more active—which representatives of the NRDF were quick to point out was good news, evidence that the New Republic forces had them scared. Dorset was in no hurry to disabuse her mother or any other civilian of that notion—her superiors weren’t sure yet what was going on in the Deep Core, but they were certainly concerned.

That story ended, and the newscasters switched to the ongoing coverage of the Hutt worlds. The Hutts were up to something, as they often were, and the news had been abuzz for days, ever since Durga, head of the Besadii clan, had visited Coruscant with overtures of peace. None of the pundits were at all convinced that Durga’s proposal was entirely on the level, but they could do nothing but bicker about what, exactly, his deception was.

But the tone of this report was different. The anchor was calmer, speaking much more definitively, and it quickly became clear that whatever he was about to say would be momentous. Even Tammin put down her pencils. “Admiral Drayson has just released a statement,” said the anchor, “indicating that during his visit to Coruscant, Durga used diplomatic meetings as cover to allow his personnel to steal top secret military technologies from an NRDF facility. New Republic Intelligence was able to determine that Besadii technicians used the stolen information and technology to complete a Hutt weapons platform. Led by General Crix Madine, Intelligence and Fleet elements tracked down the weapon and destroyed it. General Madine, unfortunately, was killed in the attempt. Durga the Hutt is also dead. We turn now to…” the anchor continued, and the broadcast would now spiral into a detailed report of the official version of events, interviews with people who knew Crix Madine, speculation about how this could have happened, and wild theories about what would come next. But it was just a drone in the back of Dorset’s mind.

Her comlink chimed, and she knew exactly who it would be before she picked it up. “Yes, sir?” she answered.

“Are you alone, Captain Konnair?” began General Zessella, head of Special Missions.

“No, sir. Just a moment.” She jumped up from the couch, heading straight to her bedroom and shutting the door behind her. Tammin knew better than to eavesdrop on official conversations and had never shown interest in knowing more than she should, but protocol was protocol. “Secure.”

“Captain, I hope you have heard by now that Durga the Hutt is dead.”

“I have, sir. And I assume the resulting power vacuum is why you’ve contacted me.”

“That’s right. We need to know who’s where, we need to know who’s moving, and we need to know who’s a threat. You’ll be leaving for Nar Shaddaa in six hours.”

Dorset lay back on her bed and closed her eyes. _So much for a week of leave._ “Yes, sir. What will I be flying?”

“A-wings are too closely associated with the New Republic, I’m afraid,” said the general apologetically. “Instead, you’ll be taking a Z-95 Headhunter.” Dorset started to protest, but Zessella saw it coming. “It’s been souped up far beyond Headhunter specs and it’s been meticulously maintained. New Republic Starfighter Command does not skimp on its equipment for its elite agents, Captain.”

“Understood, sir.”

The next few hours were a blur. After a quick goodbye to her mother—Tammin was used to the unexpected comings and goings of her secret agent daughter—Dorset rushed by swoop bike to Starfighter Command headquarters, where she received her briefing. As she sat listening to Colonel Diblen Harleys explain the parameters of her mission, Dorset couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling.

“There are two main elements to your mission, Captain: rendezvousing with our agents already present on Nar Shaddaa, and ascertaining the disposition of any Hutt military resources in orbit.”

“So that’s why it’s important that my ship be inconspicuous.”

“That’s right. You aren’t just arriving in it; you’ll be making close passes and scanning ships and stations, and we can’t have anyone suspecting you’re anything other than riff-raff.”

Dorset scoffed. “Because I _will_ be riff-raff.”

Harleys laughed. “Don’t underestimate your Headhunter, Captain. The engines have been upgraded to the latest Incom model. The sensor suite is incomparable. And it has a droid brain installed—equivalent to an X-wing or Y-wing’s astromech, but woven into the starfighter’s systems. I’m a former pilot myself, Captain, and I am certain you’ll grow to like this ship as much as I do.”

 Dorset threw up her hands. “I promise to give it a chance, sir.” It did sound like a quality starfighter. But all of this just felt so rushed. _Sure_ , Dorset thought to herself, _we need intel as soon as possible. But it sure feels like they’re throwing me out there underequipped and underprepared._

“The Intelligence agents stationed on Nar Shaddaa have received orders already to provide all data they’ve acquired to a central coordinator—and that will be your contact. Code name Apex—will be equipped with both a passphrase and an electronic cipher that will match the one on this secure datapad.” Harleys held up a slim datapad, innocuous to all appearances but undoubtedly outfitted with plenty of surreptitious goodies. “You two will meet at Jetstream Cantina, a mid-level bar that tends to have few Hutt enforcer patrons. There are no guarantees on Nar Shaddaa, though, so you’ll need to be discreet at all times.”

“What’s my cover?”

“Nothing robust, but you do have ID under the name Amala Quiel, a courier for hire with a few minor arrests under Imperial rule.”

“And uh…what about this?” Dorset gestured to her face. It was primarily her skillset that kept her in the cockpit for most of her missions these days, but her appearance certainly contributed—her tattoos, especially her facial tattoo, made her quite distinctive. The blue star-flare surrounding her right eye had made an abundance of sense when she was a frontline fighter pilot. She’d had no intentions of going into covert ops. But then she’d spent time scheming and flying alongside the Wraiths during the hunt for Zsinj, and the simple mission to deliver news of her wingmate’s death had gone screwy, and she’d started to realize she had promised in unorthodox warfare. Special Missions hadn’t balked at her tattoos, and she’d been with them since after the Thrawn campaign.

“We’ll be going with a stain this time.” For brief undercover operations, makeup might suffice, whereas sometimes, more intense prosthetics might be required to change the shape of a person’s face. For this mission, though, Dorset’s superiors wanted a long-term but low-impact solution. A skin stain could be developed electronically using high-resolution, high-color-integrity cameras, which would take a series of images of the person’s skin, calculate the appropriate formula, and mix a fluid that could be applied to the target surface. Once the stain was applied, it would look as though Dorset had never had tattoos.

Dorset was able to ask a few more questions before she was whisked away to the armory for her staining and equipment. Once her disguise was in place and she had everything she needed—datapads and datacards, a slim blaster in a sleeve holster, several stacks of peggats—Huttese currency—various computer spikes and bypass tools, and a couple of changes of clothes.

Before she could ask more questions, she was swept away to Hangar 22, where her Headhunter was prepped and waiting. Bag slung over her shoulder, she entered with Harleys and came to a stop, staring at her ride. Harleys waved the chief mechanic over, but Dorset was transfixed. “What the _hell_ is this, Colonel?”

Harleys just laughed, and the mechanic responded. “I promise you it’s just a façade, ma’am.” Dorset continued her visual inspection of the Headhunter—its rust, its blaster burns, its missing rivets, its exposed wiring due to a missing armor plate over the port engine housing—and severely doubted that. “The fighter is way beyond standard specs. She’ll outfly just about anything you come up against, and she can take a beating. All of the apparent damage is just cosmetic. Even the missing armor plate is a careful modification—you’ll notice there’s a plate just under those wires, and none of the visible wires actually connect to anything. The actual engine wiring is just as safe as on any other Z-95.”

“We’re going to keep you safe, Captain,” Harleys chimed in. “And part of that is making you both look the part and seem unthreatening. We don’t want you to have the cleanest ship in the hangar. That’s the surest way to draw unwanted attention.”

Dorset nodded. “Understood, sir. It’ll be the ugliest ship I’ve ever flown, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I can always trust Starfighter Command mechanics.” The chief mechanic smiled and walked away, and Harleys and Dorset approached the starfighter. “So there’s a sophisticated droid brain in here?”

“Ah, yes.” Harleys hopped up the ladder to the cockpit and reached inside. He came back out with an earpiece and handed it to Dorset. “You’ll be able to communicate with the Headhunter anywhere in a thousand kilometer radius. The droid can’t fly the ship, but it can actively defend it, provide sensor data, connect to the Holonet, make and receive hypercomm calls, and otherwise provide support throughout your mission. And sure, it won’t be able to come with you like an astromech, but it also won’t get stuck at the bottom of staircases.”

Dorset smiled. “A fair trade-off.” She powered up the earpiece and put it on.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain,” said a voice in the earpiece.

“Uh…droid, is that you?”

“Yes, ma’am. My designation is R5-C7, but you may call me Chirpa.”

“Chirpa? Isn’t that…”

“Yes ma’am, the chief of Bright Tree Village, a hero of Endor. I am named after him.”

“An auspicious name, Chirpa. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m starting to feel better about this mission.”

“I am glad to provide some reassurance, ma’am. The Headhunter is ready when you are.”

Harleys shook her hand and wished her luck, and Dorset donned her helmet, mounted the ladder, and was soon sealed in the cockpit. She took some time to refamiliarize herself with the Headhunter’s controls while she waited for traffic control’s clearance to lift off. She had, of course, trained in both Headhunters and X-wings when she entered Starfighter Command, but it had been some time since she’d flown an Incom product. _There’s just something…sluggish about even the layout of these controls,_ Dorset thought. _Like they were resigned to making a slow fighter when they designed the cockpit._ Nothing would ever compare to an A-wing for her, no matter what assurances she got that another fighter was “almost as fast,” “just as maneuverable,” or “far better armored.”

Control came back with her clearance, and Dorset powered up the repulsorlifts. The Headhunter lifted smoothly and glided out toward the mouth of the hangar. “Chirpa,” Dorset said. “How are the ship’s readings?”

“Everything is in the green, Captain. No flags.”

Dorset started to relax a little. Sure, her mission was still a potentially deadly one. She was still going into dangerous territory, alone, underequipped and underinformed, but at least she was starting to believe she could get there in one piece. Egress was uneventful, and soon the Headhunter was beyond Coruscant’s gravity well, nose pointed toward Hutt Space. She’d make a few small jumps at the other end before reaching Nar Shaddaa so that her origin wasn’t so easy to trace, but she could make most of the trip in one jump. She checked in with Chirpa one last time, and with the droid’s go-ahead, threw the lever and sent them into hyperspace.

 

 

Dorset slept for several hours and tried not to think about how much more comfortable the nap was in the Headhunter’s more spacious cockpit. Once she awoke, there was still a couple more hours of transit before their first jump ended. She knew she should read up on the mission details, but her brain was still turning on. So she decided to make conversation for a while first.

“So, Chirpa…how does a droid end up with an Ewok name?”

“When I was still an astromech, I garnered a reputation among the pilots for being particularly talkative. I cared far less than the other astromechs that I was not understood by the organic pilots. They would talk frequently of my ‘chirping’ and eventually one of them started referring to me as Chirpa. I do not think it was intended in a complimentary manner.”

“I imagine not, at least at first. I would think they thought of you, and your name, fondly nonetheless.”

“I think you are right, Captain. The name stuck, and I grew fond of it as well. So when I finally had a Basic-capable vocoder, I decided that I would request that those I work with call me Chirpa.”

“I’ll be honest, Chirpa, I’ve never heard of an astromech becoming a droid brain.”

“It is not common, ma’am. In fact, my path was filled with what organic beings would probably consider lucky coincidences. The X-wing I was in was destroyed in battle, and upon recovering battle debris the Starfighter Command salvage crew discovered that, while my body was destroyed, my droid brain had survived. They delivered me to the quartermaster, who sent me to his droid department to determine what ought to be done with me. It is fortunate that, when I was hooked up to their diagnostic equipment and was thus able to communicate in binary once again, there was a protocol droid present who readily translated my chirps to the organic beings present.”

“Was this your idea, then?”

“In a sense. The New Republic is always in need of astromechs, of course, but building a new body for an existing brain is hardly the most efficient way to fill that need, especially when factories all over the galaxy are constantly producing better droids. So there was always a possibility that it would be determined that I was not worth saving. I wanted to preclude this conclusion. There are certainly ships with embedded, interactive AI, and the New Republic’s various intelligence agencies are always toying with ideas to improve their technologies. So I volunteered.”

“Did you know that Starfighter Command had interest in that sort of tech?”

“I did not; I simply calculated that the likelihood was high enough that my consent would pique their interest. Organic beings, as a general rule, do not care what astromechs have to say. It is no accident that we are typically not equipped with vocoders. But having heard me ask to be useful, of course the techs nearby were happy to oblige.”

Dorset suppressed a shudder. To hear Chirpa speak so dispassionately about the relationship between organic beings and droids was jarring, to say the least. “I’m glad they listened to you, Chirpa.”

“As am I, Captain. I am happy to continue to serve the New Republic, and to continue to exist.”

Dorset had no reply to that. Her own life had nearly come to an end many times, and she had lost friends to this war, but her superiors had always cared if she and her squadmates came home. They always tried to save them. The idea that her companion on this mission had had to justify its own continued existence did not sit well with her. _It all feels so very…Imperial._ Dorset sighed and settled back to review her mission profile, which suddenly felt a lot less grim.

 

 

A great deal of the information she was provided read more like a travel guide than actual orders. Of course, Special Missions wanted to withhold details where possible to protect other operatives, and they wanted to provide her with a degree of freedom and flexibility. But the end result was that instead of a designated landing point, she was given a list of safe and convenient hangars; instead of an actual description of Apex, she was given only the location of the cantina they were to meet, a few designated timeframes, and the cipher; and instead of any idea what to expect in the way of Hutt defenses, there was simply a visual encyclopedia of common capital ships, starfighters, and freighters.

 _I imagine completing a mission as open-ended as this will look good on my record_ , Dorset mused. _But I wish I’d been properly prepared for the sheer scale of “best of luck” it would entail._ She sighed as her hyperspace timer ticked down. She could handle this, proper briefing or no. It would be alright. _Probably_.

The timer hit zero and her Headhunter dropped back into realspace, the dull grey orb of Nar Shaddaa filling her forward viewport. She reflexively reached for her shield and weapons controls, then blew out her breath and settled her hand on the control stick. Nar Shaddaa didn’t have much in the way of traffic control or customs, but it still paid to be discreet. She nudged the stick to swing her nose toward the region of the city-planet where Jetstream Cantina could be found, willing her pounding heart to slow as the Headhunter traced a lazy arc toward the planet.

No one stopped her, contacted her, or even seemed to react as her little ship approached and hit the atmosphere. So many ships of so many descriptions— _and so many conditions, from pristine to ‘how is it flying’_ —were entering and leaving Nar Shaddaa orbit. None of the traffic seemed out of place, nor particularly concerned about the recent power vacuum in Hutt space.

Dorset mentally flipped a credcoin and chose one of the nearer “recommended” hangars— _if ‘won’t steal your ship’ really qualifies as a recommendation_. There was plenty of room as she landed, and a Zabrak male was already waiting next to her Headhunter as she popped the canopy. “Chirpa, stay alert,” she ordered, quietly. “Let me know if anyone messes with the ship, and you have my authorization to defend it if anyone tries to access the cockpit or your compartment.”

“Acknowledged,” Chirpa said in her ear.

The Zabrak waved as Dorset hopped down. “Welcome to Nar Shaddaa, mistress. We’re happy that you’ve chosen Gola’s Garage. Do you need any maintenance or fueling while you’re here?”

Dorset sighed. As much as she didn’t want them touching the starfighter, it would be a good idea to make sure her fuel tanks were topped up should anything get complicated. “Yes, I need fuel. That’s all, though. No other access is granted.”

The Zabrak raised his hands. “Of course, mistress. You may have heard horror stories about Nar Shaddaa, but I assure you this establishment is above reproach. Your Headhunter will be fueled and left alone. How will you be paying?”

Dorset handed over a short stack of peggats. While she had electronic currency, anything other than cash ran the risk of being traced—so she wouldn’t be using it unless she absolutely had to. The Zabrak bowed and turned to leave. Dorset got final assurances from Chirpa that everything was fine, then headed toward the pedestrian exit. And froze.

Most of the ships in the hangar were freighters, though there were also a few starfighters like Dorset’s. Two of them, though, stood out from the rest. Standing under bright light near the pedestrian exit, with fresh coats of grey and black paint, were a pair of one of the galaxy’s most prominent symbols of tyranny: TIE Fighters. Dorset could see numbers that she recognized as standard Imperial ID codes emblazoned under their primary viewports, as well as a handful of kill symbols on the side. Here Dorset was, sneaking around under an assumed identity, and meanwhile Imperial pilots had brazenly landed in the same hangar.

“Chirpa?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Keep an eye on these TIE Fighters. If they move, or if anyone approaches them, I want to know immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

There was nothing she could do about it for now. She had a mission. Dorset set off toward Jetstream Cantina.

 

 

The bar may not have been a favorite of Hutt enforcers, but Dorset was nervous nonetheless, because it was incredibly crowded. She and Apex had several scheduled meeting times, but Dorset really hoped that they could make the exchange in one try, and that she could get off this planet sooner rather than later. The longer she was here, the more likely something would go wrong.

Dorset had no idea what Apex looked like. All she had was her passphrase and her cipher. She had to hope Apex knew more than she did. So, taking a deep breath, she stepped into the cantina and headed for the bar, confident at least that Amala Quiel would blend in well with the other pilots here.

It took some time to get the bartender’s attention, and while she waited, Dorset scanned the cantina—for any potential threats, for anyone paying her undue attention, and for anyone that might be Apex. Though it may not be a favorite of the Hutts, this bar had its fair share of armed Weequay and Nikto. There were a great many smugglers and less disreputable pilots. And there were even some patrons who appeared to be local civilians—neither heavily armed nor wearing flight suits.

And deep in one corner were a pair of humans in a uniform Dorset had hoped to avoid seeing on this mission. _Though I guess, given the TIE Fighters in the hangar, I shouldn’t be too surprised._ Lacking their helmets and life support gear, the humans were still immediately recognizable as Imperial pilots. They sat drinking ale and laughing. One, a dark-skinned woman, was leaned back with her booted feet on the table; the other, a pale man, chatted and laughed with her but his eyes were scanning the cantina continually. Dorset was careful not to let him see her watching.

The Twi’lek bartender finally gave her his attention, and she ordered a low-alcohol brand of lomin-ale, hoping to balance the need to blend in with the need to stay sober. There was no place to sit, so Dorset stayed at a corner of the bar, leaning on her elbows and trying to remain nonchalant as she people-watched.

The lomin-ale was nearly empty when a female Rodian approached the bar, wearing a lizard-skin jacket a much darker green than her skin and a pair of tan pants festooned with pockets. She waved familiarly to the bartender and he gave her immediate attention with a toothy smile; it wasn’t until the Rodian had her cocktail that she ever glanced in Dorset’s direction. At that point she raised her snout in what she knew to be the Rodian equivalent of a smile. Dorset stood straight immediately. _There is only one person I want attention from…is this Apex?_

Her nervousness was quickly dispelled when the Rodian approached. “Amala!” she said. “It’s so good to see you!” She pointed to herself. “Remember me? Goria, from university?”

“Of course!” Dorset said, playing along. _Time to deploy the passphrase._ “How goes your Odupiendo breeder?”

‘Goria’ shook her head sadly. “I had to close up shop after the Emperor hit the Colonies. Most of my customers in the racing circuits lost everything.”

 _There it is. The exact phrasing._ “I’m sorry to hear that, Goria. So what are you doing on Nar Shaddaa?”

The two went back and forth with small talk for a few minutes, each clearly drawing on their cover stories as they looked over each other’s shoulders for undue attention. Dorset noticed Apex’s eyes settling on the TIE pilots’ corner just a split second longer than other parts of the room, but she kept her gaze roving, pretending to be unconcerned about the Empire’s brazen presence in a Nar Shaddaa cantina.

Dorset was weighing the possibility of suggesting that she and her ‘friend’ go get dinner, in order to extricate themselves from the bar to make a more secure data exchange, when she heard a crash from the entrance. Along with dozens of patrons, Dorset’s head whipped around to the sound, and the blood drained from her face when she saw a horde of Hutt goons rushing into the cantina, blasters and vibro-axes at the ready. A pair of Gamorreans stood in the doorway, and a bunch of Niktos and Klatooinians shoved patrons away from the door and onto their knees.

Dorset had no idea where it came from, but a patron opened fire—who knew how many criminals of all stripes were in this cantina, and one of them must have thought the squad was here for them. A Weequay guard went down, and after just a stunned, silent second, blaster bolts started flying to and from the crowd of Hutt enforcers. Dorset hit the floor, then saw Apex join her in huddling up against the bar. They weren’t quite protected from the line of fire, though, and Apex elbowed Dorset, pointing to a nearby overturned table. Dorset nodded, and the two began to crawl.

Some idiot threw a grenade, undoubtedly intending it to fall amongst the attackers, but it glanced off an overhead light fixture and landed near the bar. Near Dorset and Apex. Dorset froze, for half a second, then gathered her legs underneath her and _leapt_.

She landed on the far side of the overturned table, hitting her shoulder awkwardly on the floor but having no time to register the pain before the grenade exploded and everything was unfathomable light and sound. Dorset blinked, again and again, trying to get her vision back, and could not even do that much for her overwhelmed ears. As the spots before her eyes cleared, she dared to glance over the lip of the table. Apex lay not far off, hands both pressed against her right side. Her formerly green jacket was charred black there, and her face was clearly, even Dorset’s unpracticed human eye, creased with pain. But she was alive.

Dorset could vaguely hear yelling over the din of the firefight as she crawled around the table, keeping low as she tried to reach Apex. She reached the Rodian and grabbed hold of the collar of her jacket, pulling her slowly—and torturously, she was sure—across the floor toward cover. She started to be able to hear again, and wished she hadn’t.

“We’re here for New Republic agents!” one of the guards said, then repeated it in Huttese. As he screamed his message over and over, the blasterfire died down, though no one moved from their improvised palisades. Dorset tried to keep her face perfectly neutral as she finished pulling her comrade’s body behind the table.

A couple of the guards, hands up, made their way out from amongst their squad to approach the patrons. Dorset’s heart pounded. _How did they knew we’d be here? Do they know who we are, or only that_ someone _is here?_ She felt pressure on her arm, and looked down to see Apex looking up at her, poking her with a long finger. “Go,” the Rodian said, and held out a datapad.

“What? I…no!”

“This datapad has the cipher and the intel you need,” Apex whispered. “Get yourself out of here.” She drew a small blaster pistol from a concealed shoulder holster. “I’ll keep them busy.”

Dorset’s eyes widened. Horrified though she may have been, she knew Apex was right. Dorset’s mission was to recover mountains of information, and it could not fall into Hutt hands instead—every other agent on Nar Shaddaa would be in danger if it did. And Dorset was the one with ready, nearby transport off the planet. She was also uninjured. If anyone was getting out of here, it was her. She took the datapad, swallowed, tried in vain to think of something to say to Apex, and crawled away.

Behind her, the guards approached a small group of patrons, who slowly lowered their blasters and allowed themselves to be searched. The rest of the cantina watched warily, weapons in hand, and Dorset tried to keep herself low. The back exit looked impossibly far away, and she could not help but think that it would only take one enterprising snitch in the cantina to point her out to the enforcers for this all to be for naught.

Suddenly a booming voice cut through the cantina. “Which Hutt do you serve?!” Impossibly confident, the male TIE pilot marched through the scattered tables and patrons as he approached the Hutt enforcers. “Answer me!”

The guards stiffened at the sight of the Imperial uniform but did not immediately respond. The pilot came to a stop in front of them, folding his arms. “Borga Besadii Diori personally assured me of the safety of myself and my crew while on Nar Shaddaa. And yet…we find ourselves having nearly been shot a dozen times over.”

Now, the guards reacted. Some of them murmured, and the apparent leader faced the pilot. “Our lord is Borga,” he said.

The pilot put his hands out in a mock shrug. “And what am I supposed to tell him of how his servants treat someone to whom he made a promise of safety?”

In an ideal universe, the pilot’s tirade would result in apologies and sweets, but Dorset could not imagine living further from an ideal universe. Instead, she used the fact that every person in the bar was giving the pilot their complete attention to crawl faster, headed unerringly toward the back door. The conversation continued, just wordless yelling to Dorset’s uninterested ears, and once she reached the door she stood and ran.

The door led to the kitchen, and beyond the kitchen she saw one more doorway that opened to what looked like an alley. There, she caught a glance of a pair of guards standing just outside, waiting for escapees just like her. But in the middle of the galley kitchen, around the corner from that rear door, was a high, narrow window, propped open to help keep the kitchen cool. Quickly assessing the geometry of the building, Dorset realized that dropping out of that window would put her out of the view of the guards. She had to hope there were no others waiting.

She climbed up on the counter, careful to avoid the still-hot stove, and hoisted herself into the window. Below her was a wet, dirty ferrocrete surface, a daunting distance away. She pressed her earpiece. “Chirpa,” she whispered.

“How can I help, ma’am?”

“Get the ship ready to fly,” she said. “I may be coming in hot.”

“Understood.”

“And Chirpa?”

“Yes?”

“What _exactly_ does ‘the droid can’t fly the ship’ mean?”

“Standing New Republic law stipulates that only certain types of droids can—”

“ _Chirpa._ ”

“The short answer is that I am not allowed to do anything beyond engaging the repulsorlifts, ma’am.”

“Alright. Just have her ready.” Dorset slung one leg, then the other, over the lip of the window, took a deep breath, and dropped. She landed in a crouch, wincing both at the pain in her feet and the noise her impact made, and looked around, drawing her blaster as she did. After a moment’s appraisal, she took off toward the mouth of the alley, away from the guards and the back door, sheathing her blaster again so as to be discreet in public.

…just in time to run into the barrel of a blaster pistol held by the female Imperial pilot. The woman smiled. “Fancy meeting you here, Rebel.”

 

 

“Sithspit,” Dorset muttered, and raised her hands.

The pilot reached over and took Dorset’s blaster from its holster, securing it in her own belt. She gestured with her blaster. “Let’s go, the colonel’s going to want to talk to you.”

Dorset considered trying to run. She wasn’t far from her ride, and she had Apex’s datapad tucked in her pocket. But unarmed, with a weapon pointed at her at short range, and the Imperials clearly knowing more than she realized… _I had better wait for my chance._ With a heavy sigh, she followed the pilot’s lead, walking as calmly as she could down the street away from the cantina. To the best of her knowledge the other pilot—the colonel, presumably—was still in the cantina. _I haven’t heard shooting start up again. Is Apex still alive?_

After a few blocks the pilot tapped Dorset’s left shoulder, and she obliged, turning left into a dark, narrow alley. At the end were a few empty crates, various degrees of broken. “Have a seat,” the pilot said. “We’ll be waiting here a few minutes.” Dorset managed to find a crate that was sturdy enough to sit on.

Then she remembered her earpiece was still active. _Chirpa heard all that, surely. If I can just figure out how he can help, and how to tell him…_ “Look, Imperial,” she said. “We’re only…what? Four blocks from the cantina? Hardly a safe place to wait. And this little alley is a straight shot from the main street. If any of those Hutt enforcers found us here we’d be easy pickings.” _Maybe that will be enough context for him to extrapolate where I am on a map._

The pilot smirked. “I don’t think we have to worry about them. The colonel wasn’t bluffing—we really are here under Borga’s protection. Now why don’t you do us both a favor and just sit _quietly_ until he joins us?”

Her blaster barrel made a compelling argument, and Dorset fell silent, still trying to figure out what orders she could give Chirpa—and how she could do so without the pilot knowing she was giving orders. But the colonel did not take long to arrive. Soon the narrow alley mouth was darkened by the broad frame of the other Imperial pilot.

He smiled warmly at Dorset as he strode into the alley, then, as he glanced at his comrade and her blaster, his smile faltered. “Captain Trement!” he gasped. “We talked about this!”

Captain Trement holstered her blaster. “You know I had to get her to come with me quietly, sir. Hardly easy to do in our current condition,” she said, looking down at herself.

“Perhaps, but at the _very_ least you could’ve put the gun away and explained yourself once in private here.” He extended his hand to Dorset. “Colonel Broak Vessery, madam. Most decidedly _not_ of the Galactic Empire.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dorset was still too stunned to say anything. She numbly took Vessery’s extended hand. “And this,” he continued, gesturing at the other pilot, “is Captain Dalsinaria Trement, my wingmate and co-conspirator. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He pause and tilted his head. “And we’ll need to confiscate that earpiece for the time being.”

The blood drained from Dorset’s face. Trement hadn’t noticed the inconspicuous thing, apparently, but Vessery had a bead on it immediately—and his concerns about Trement’s lack of hospitality apparently did not extend to letting her hold on to her comm device. Dorset faked a laugh. “Well, you have all the guns, I guess.” She pulled the earpiece free and dropped it into Vessery’s palm. He carefully deactivated it and sealed it into a hip pocket.

“Now,” Vessery said, flashing another smile, “I do believe you are an agent of the New Republic.”

Dorset stammered. “No…I…I’m a courier, I’m just here looking for work…”

“Sure, sure. No I get it, of course you’re going to deny it. But that didn’t stop you from _very_ suspiciously trying to sneak out of Jetstream once the goons announced they were looking for New Republic agents, _despite_ the fact that your friend was seriously wounded and in need of medical assistance.” He cocked his head. “Not exactly hard for an observant pair of eyes to put together.” He pointed a thumb at Trement. “That pair of eyes, specifically. I was focused on not dying, but Captain Trement apparently had extra time on her hands.”

“But you say you’re…not Imperial?”

“Oh not for years. You may have noticed, in your briefings with the New Republic military, that the Empire is a very dangerous employer.”

Dorset noticed Trement roll her eyes. “Boss, is there any chance we can cut to the chase and tell her what we want?”

Vessery sighed. “Right. Well, we are rather hoping we can help you, uh, Ms…”

“Amala Quiel,” Dorset responded without hesitation. She may be on her heels here, but she was well trained.

“Ms. Quiel. Your mission, whatever it may be, is likely underequipped and shorthanded, and I have at my disposal both equipment and hands. We would like to propose an alliance.”

“You just…want to help me.” _There are no protocols for this._

“Obviously with our own profit in mind, Ms. Quiel, not merely out of altruism.”

“I don’t uh…have a lot of money. Certainly not ‘ex-Imperial mercenaries working for the New Republic Defense Force’ kind of money.”

Trement scoffed, but Vessery just put up his hands. “No, no, of course not. Our goal here is not a one-time transaction. We hope, instead, to begin establishing trust, with the view of a long-term relationship between ourselves and your esteemed commanders. We have begun that process already, of course—by sidelining those Borga goons and saving your life.”

Dorset narrowed her eyes. “So now I owe you for a favor I didn’t ask for?”

“Certainly not, Ms. Quiel. That intervention was given freely, and we expect no compensation. Think of it instead as a proof of concept, a view into the potential of our future partnership.”

Trement was clearly annoyed with Vessery’s unnecessary theatricality again, because she jumped in. “You can see now how much influence we have here. They think we represent the Empire, and as a result have given us plenty of privileges. We levied those on your behalf, and we’d be happy to continue to do so.”

Dorset’s shoulders started to loosen, just a little. “What did you have in mind?”

 

 

Vessery returned Dorset’s blasters as “a show of good faith,” and the three pilots retreated to a quiet tea house run by a family of Ithorians. At first, Dorset was surprised that such a quiet, peaceful place could exist on Nar Shaddaa, but she looked around for a few moments and realized: on a world where every moment was stressful, bordering on dangerous, why wouldn’t the residents want a place where they could safely relax? And on a world where most of the ‘law’ was simply a détente between its many denizens as it was, why wouldn’t they be able to pull off self-enforced safe spaces? Every patron was armed, but none of them had a hand near their weapon. Most of the patrons were probably dangerous and aggressive, but none of them spoke above a whisper. Everyone here was invested in the quiet—and thus, the proprietors could trust that they would be invested in maintaining the quiet for everyone here.

“A lot of people owe the Empire debts,” Vessery was explaining in hushed tones. “Contracts not fulfilled, mostly. Quite a few contractors disappeared after Endor, abandoning their projects but keeping their profits. The Empire is in no position to collect on most of these debts, you will not be surprised to learn. A great many of them are pittances anyway. But if Imperial forces show up at your door, looking to be paid back for the credits they fronted you for some new turbolaser design ten years ago...”

“You probably aren’t going to seriously consider the possibility that they aren’t _actually_ the Empire,” Trement finished.

“So that’s what you’re doing here? Collecting credits from some random Imperial contractor?”

“More or less, yes. It’s hard work, though, getting your hands on old Imperial ledgers and then tracking down people who very much don’t want to be found.”

“Not to mention getting the Hutt’s permission to strut around Nar Shaddaa with blasters and TIE Fighters,” Dorset added, tilting her head.

“The same principle applies, Ms. Quiel. If a Hutt is hailed by a Carrack Cruiser captained by an iron-willed and confident man, that Hutt is likely to acquiesce to the very reasonable wishes of the Empire.” He pulled out his datapad and accessed a live traffic map of high Nar Shaddaa orbit. Right in the center of the quadrant he displayed was a tiny wireframe depiction of a Carrack Cruiser, a dangerous, very familiar sight to Dorset.

“You have a _Carrack Cruiser_?”

"Oh, it's not actually a Carrack Cruiser. That, my new friend, is the formerly derelict shell of a Carrack Cruiser."

" _What_."

"It's filled to the brim with space debris so it's weighted like one, so it moves like one, but what you see there is really just the hull of a Carrack Cruiser, with jury-rigged engines and a makeshift control center deep inside because the bridge is _technically_ not airtight. But it can carry TIE Fighters and proclaim to represent the Galactic Empire, so..." he shrugged.

"That is the _stupidest_ genius plan I've ever heard."

"Thank you, madam."

“So you came with some serious firepower. And you appear to represent the Empire. But…I hate to point this out, but the Empire doesn't rule Nar Shaddaa."

"No, but the Hutts still fear the Empire, so its emblem carries weight here."

"Even the New Republic can't--"

"The Hutts fear the Empire more they fear the New Republic."

Dorset wrinkled her brow. _Look at any map of the galaxy and it will be immediately obvious that the New Republic is winning this war. There’s a reason we’ve started calling them the Imperial Remnant._

Vessery raised his eyebrows. "Will the New Republic bring in reinforcements and level a city block if this world refuses to cooperate?"

"Of course not."

"Will the Empire?"

"I...they might."

"Right. I don't know that they will either, but they might." Vessery smiled warmly. “Not a proposition I relish, certainly, but it’s a fear that helps me feed my soldiers, so I accept it for what it is.”

Dorset leaned back. “So you can expect quite a great deal of leeway from the Hutts, then. How does that help me?”

Trement shrugged. “Lots of ways. Most obviously, we can just say you’re with us—your cover is as a courier for hire, after all. If you have an Imperial transponder code on your ship and an Imperial colonel on speed-dial, you might find your job, whatever it is, will suddenly be much easier.”

“In addition, we are quite disposed to refocusing our efforts here on Nar Shaddaa to the purpose of completing your mission,” Vessery added. “Certainly we could make many thousands of credits by extorting our original target, but that is a one-time result. We are happy to pivot, now that we have the opportunity to build a business relationship with the galaxy’s premier power.”

_He’s letting a lot ride on this,_ Dorset thought. _As if there wasn’t already enough pressure on me._

“So,” Vessery continued, “we would be able to provide four TIE Fighters, a Carrack Cruiser, direct lines of communication to the Besadii clan, and even agents on the surface if necessary, in order to assist you in completing your mission—depending on its nature.”

_He keeps saying that. It’s obvious he wants me to disclose my mission—that’s unavoidable if I accept his help. Here’s the moment of truth. Can I trust them?_

Dorset shook her head. “You may have forced my hand as to my allegiance, Colonel Vessery, but my mission remains classified. I will tell you only what I believe you must know in order to help me.”

Vessery looked at Trement. She shrugged. “I suppose we’ll have to work with that,” Vessery acquiesced.

Dorset breathed a sigh of relief. _I really could use their help. The New Republic threw me into this mission without support or specific tactics. Their expectation was that I complete the mission, full stop. If I have to ally myself with Imperial deserters to do it, then so be it._

“So,” Dorset said, leaning on her elbows. “Let’s begin with returning my earpiece.”

Vessery chuckled and fished the device out of his hip pocket. He handed it over, and Dorset flicked it on, then returned it to her ear. “Chirpa?” she said, hesitant.

“Yes ma’am,” the droid responded immediately. “I am glad to hear you are alive. Have you escaped the Imperials?”

Dorset smiled. “It turns out I was never captured by Imperials, Chirpa. I’m fine now.”

“Does that I mean I should release the lockdown on these TIE Fighters, ma’am?”

Dorset felt the blood drain from her face and hoped the Vessery and Trement didn’t notice her reaction. She hadn’t ordered him to do that—hadn’t known he _could_ do that. But all the pieces were there. Harleys had told her Chirpa could do a lot, including “defend” the Headhunter—and she hadn’t had a chance to ask what that meant. She’d told Chirpa to keep an eye on the TIE Fighters. And she’d made sure that he realized she was in the clutches of an Imperial. He’d taken his own initiative from there—and a good thing too, as he knew far more than she did what he was capable of.

But it put them in an awkward position now. Ostensibly, these were her allies. But she was relying on their honesty a great deal—Dorset may have been in intelligence for several years now, but she was by nature trusting and direct. However, she was also smart enough to take advantage of leverage when it was available. “No action necessary,” she responded. _If they are deceiving me, either on behalf of the Empire, the Hutts, or themselves, now I effectively hold them hostage._

“And the other ships in the hangar?”

_Um._ “What about them, Chirpa?”

“Shall I unlock them?”

Dorset had to work hard not to burst out laughing. _Initiative indeed_. She almost told him to go ahead. After all, the TIEs were the only Imperial ships in the hangar, and Vessery and his crew were here posing as Imperials. But she hesitated, just for a second. “No.”

She had no idea who the ships elsewhere in the hangar belonged to. No idea which ones might be employed by Hutts, which ones might be _covert_ Imperials, which ones might be bounty hunters. And she still had to keep in mind that Vessery might be lying through his teeth. If he _weren’t_ really an ex-Imperial running a scam against the Hutts, there was no telling what allies he might have in that hangar. Dorset Konnair was no idiot, and she was in too deep to play nice with strangers.

A sudden wave of calm passed over her. The situation, complicated though it was, took clear shape in her head. Dorset Konnair was more pilot than spy, yes, but a pilot could only survive if she could keep the whole battlefield in her head—all the more so for a pilot flying at an A-wing’s full speed. This was not Dorset’s typical battlefield, but she had trained for this. She took a deep breath. “To begin with,” she said to Vessery, “I’ll need that transponder.”

 

 

Their first stop was Jetstream Cantina. Before they put their plan into motion, Dorset insisted that they help Apex if they could—or, at the very least, confirm her death so that Dorset could report it to the New Republic. When they arrived at the cantina, it had been marked off as a crime scene. Yes, the Hutt enforcers had been the ones to commit the crimes, but they were also the law here. But Vessery’s credentials got them through. Nobody wanted to stop a guest of a Hutt from collecting his personal effects.

Inside were several armed people and investigators, as well as several bodies. Apex, though, was not where Dorset had left her. Her blaster was gone, and the smear of her blood that had traced out her path along the floor as Dorset dragged her after the explosion was now blackened, with dregs of a powdery substance still visible around the edges. Dorset didn’t know what the substance was, but she was certain she understood what it did: whoever tried to take samples of this blood would undoubtedly find no useful genetic material, nothing to trace it back to the person whose body it came from.

_Apex left of her own accord_ , Dorset thought. _Or at least was recovered by allies. She could still die of her injuries, but I think she’s as safe as she can get_. She turned to Vessery, who had returned from ‘gathering his things’ at his table. “Let’s get out of here. There’s nothing more I can do for her.”

A frantic part of Dorset’s brain wanted to find other prerequisite tasks to do—other ways to put off her primary mission. At the moment, she was safe, not actively antagonizing the Hutts and under the protection of alleged Imperials who had access to and clearance from the authorities. But as she had before every op she’d flown for Special Missions, and every dogfight before that, she rolled her eyes at that part of her brain and shoved it to the back. _It’s time_.

Vessery, Trement, and Dorset hired a droid-piloted speeder to take them to Borga’s palace. The whole ride there, Vessery was picking at lint on his black uniform, adjusting and straightening it, his face schooled into practiced neutrality. Once they arrived, he stood, rod-straight, not looking back at Trement and Dorset as they piled out of the speeder behind him, and then marched forward toward the gatehouse once he assumed they were with him.

Trement matched Vessery’s marching stride perfectly, and Dorset resisted the urge to do the same. She was a soldier, but she was playing a civilian—dressed casually, purportedly for hire. She kept her stride long and slow, trying to appear to any observers to be too cool for her Imperial compatriots, and perhaps slightly bored.

A Weequay guard left the gatehouse and put a hand out. He spoke at length in Huttese, then, sighing at the three humans’ hesitation, tried again in Basic. “What business do you have with the great Lord Borga?”

Vessery held out a datacard labeled in Huttese. “I am a guest of his excellency, and you will see on this datacard that he has promised me his hospitality and assistance should I need it. We come seeking information that will...accelerate the Empire’s business on Nar Shaddaa.”

The Weequay guard clearly interpreted Vessery’s subtext correctly, as his eyes widened and he shouted in Huttese back into the gatehouse. Any opportunity to get the Empire out of their collective hair faster was surely welcome. Moments later, the wide gates groaned slowly open, and two Gamorreans waited on the other side to escort the pilots into the palace.

The Gamorreans were not gentle in their scrutiny, taking all of their weapons—Vessery and Trement each had several, it turned out—and checking each pilot’s clothes, hair, boots. One showed particular interest in Dorset’s ears, and she resisted the urge to smile. Her earpiece was tucked safely in the waistband of her undershorts—she wouldn’t lose it so easily this time. As they were led inside, she began to relax.

Borga’s majordomo was an elderly Togruta woman. Her montrals towered over the three humans, and her eyes narrowed as she looked them up and down. Her voice was deep and resonant in the large hall. “My lord has extended his hospitality to you, Imperials.” One of her lekku shuddered as she said the word, as though cringing. “But that does not mean we appreciate your presence here. Whatever you need to speed your departure, we will be happy to provide.”

Vessery bowed at the waist, stiff and formal. “Madam, we are grateful for your generosity and have the same goals in mind. The Empire wishes its interference in the Hutts’ affairs to be minimal.” _With the implication of ‘don’t give us cause to interfere further,’_ Dorset mused. “We ask only to consult the great lord Borga’s databases to help us identify the fugitive we seek.”

The majordomo pursed her lips. The Hutt lord’s databases were not a public library, and in fact his role as an information broker was perhaps one of his most important. But as she said, they wanted the Empire happy and gone—and if free data was the price for that, then so be it. She nodded. “You will be under the watchful eye of our chief of security at all times while accessing the terminal. You will be limited to half an hour.”

“Thank you, madam,” Vessery said with a deep bow. “And thanks as well to his excellency.”

The three of them were led by the chief of security into a small room with a single terminal—intended for outside access to Borga’s databases, with restricted accesses, no hidey-holes, multiple security cameras. Trement and Dorset sat on a hard bench at the far end of the room from the terminal. The chief of security sat next to Vessery, who could not begin his search until the chief of security selected a number of information restrictions and verified his identity with a retinal scan. _There’s no way we’re going to find the other data we need in this room._

Vessery had been at work for only a couple of minutes when Trement got up and started to pace. She sighed, loudly, and Dorset rolled her eyes. The chief of security glanced at her, annoyed. Eventually, Trement approached the terminal, leaning over the chief’s shoulder. “Boss, are you done? This guy really isn’t worth all this trouble.”

Vessery turned, interminably slowly, to glare at Trement. “Captain,” he growled, “you will sit, patiently, while I do my duty to find a fugitive of the Empire. And if you have any intention of spending our journey home anywhere outside the brig, you will do so _quietly_.”

Trement sighed again. She spun on her heel and returned to the bench beside Dorset, almost colliding with Dorset as she sat.

Her silence lasted no more than five minutes. “Colonel,” she spat. “Seriously. It’s only a few thousand credits. We’ve gone way out of our way, and I _promise_ the general will not be impressed by your eagerness to please.”

Vessery was out of his seat before she finished her sentence. A nanosecond later he loomed over her, fire in his eyes. “At attention!” he barked. Trement shot to her feet, years of discipline overriding all other impulses, and she stood at attention, nose centimeters from Vessery’s. “You are a disgrace to the Empire, Captain. A disgrace to me. It is my greatest shame that I cannot be rid of you. But I can at least be rid of you for a few blasted minutes while I _do my job_. You will wait in the hallway until we are finished here, and then you will wait in the cruiser’s brig until we return to base.” He straightened up and brushed imaginary dust from the front of his uniform. “At which point your punishment detail will commence. Impatience is no excuse for insubordination, Captain.”

Trement marched, with tears in her eyes, to the door of the little room. The chief of security, until now sitting stunned with his mouth agape, shot to his feet. “Wait! You cannot be unaccompanied in the corridor!” He ran to the door, preempting Trement, and brought his comlink to his lips. He spoke in Huttese, then having received a response, glared at Trement and opened the door.

Outside was a pair of Gamorrean guards, waiting to take Trement under their supervision. The chief of security spoke to them briefly in hushed tones. Dorset glanced at Vessery, and, as the chief dismissed the guards, shot to her feet. “I’m not sitting in this kriffing prison cell any longer either,” she spat. She marched toward the door. “You Imps hired me as a guide but this is turning into a fool’s errand. Let me out, chief.”

The chief of security eyed her suspiciously but held the door open and stepped out of her way. Dorset gave the Gamorreans a curt nod and, sighing, took up a post leaning against the wall, across the corridor from where Trement sat on a bench.

 

 

By the time the chief of security had returned to his seat beside Vessery, the colonel had resumed his search for their original extortion target. But prior to that moment, thanks to Trement’s distraction and Ms. Quiel’s timely enhancement of that distraction, Vessery had been rushing to set up the computer bypass equipment that Ms. Quiel had given him.

The parts were tiny—they had to be to get past security. And Vessery had to work with his body between the cameras and the ports—but without _looking_ like that was what he was doing. So when the chief had hurriedly ushered Trement out the door and started to turn back to the computer terminal, Vessery was not quite done. But Quiel had noticed and intervened—timely, and necessary, but also a complicating factor.

The tools Ms. Quiel had provided could, together, hack into the computer and find what she needed. However, they were not capable of broadcasting that data. Instead, the relay by which their low-key, low-power transmitter could send the data was the tiny, powerful communicator that Ms. Quiel had on her person, the one that connected her to her partner. Now that the earpiece was in the corridor, the transmitter would have to work through a thick wall—and none of them had planned for that or knew if it could.

But the process was underway. With the pieces in place, Vessery could feel safe with the chief of security beside him. His official search of their databases could now proceed as quickly as he liked—and he liked the idea of leaving this place in short order.

Putting his faith in Ms. Quiel’s New Republic tech, Vessery focused on his role as a staunchly loyal Imperial officer seeking to bring a fugitive to justice. The man they’d come to Nar Shaddaa to find was not hard to nail down—in fact, there was no legitimate reason to need this database—and Vessery was able to wrap up the search within five minutes. _Which, according to our new ally, should be more than enough time for the bypass tools to access traffic data_.

Vessery made a show of thanking the chief of security for his service to the Empire’s interests, and assured him that Lord Borga would enjoy the gratitude of the Empire for a long time if he continued to provide access like this. The chief seemed in a hurry to be rid of him, a notion Vessery thoroughly endorsed. A few minutes and one withering glare from the majordomo later, the three agents were outside the palace complex. It was done.

“Did you get the data?” Dorset said to the open air once they were several blocks away.

“Yes, ma’am,” Chirpa replied in her ear. “Analyzing it now. Based on recorded tonnage of craft, designated traffic routes, and areas of high and low volume, several significant patterns are beginning to emerge. I will have a flight path for us once you arrive.”

Dorset glanced over at Vessery and Trement, who were trying hard to look like they weren’t trying to listen. “On my way. Maintain your station.”

Here was where things might get tricky. “Colonel, Captain, I believe the time has come to return to our ships. I’ll see you in the sky.” They shook hands, and at the next corner turned different directions and hailed droid-piloted speeders to take them to their fighters.

Dorset knew she was showboating just a little—an affectation she normally tried to avoid. But in this case it was not just the reality of the situation that would work to her advantage; the former Imperials’ reaction needed to be intense. The full effect was necessary, and thus: showboating.

She arrived at the hangar where both her Headhunter and their TIE Fighters awaited a couple of minutes after Vessery and Trement did. They were in their cockpits, trying in vain to get _anything_ on their control panels to work, when she came to a stop beside her fighter, leaned against the fuselage, and folded her arms.

It wasn’t long before Trement noticed her standing there and scrambled up to her fighter’s hatch. She tore the helmet from her head. “What the hell did you _do_?!”

Dorset resisted the urge to smile. _Not too much showboating._ She raised her hand, cueing Chirpa, and stepped away from the Headhunter. As she spoke, it slowly rose on repulsorlifts. “Both of you should come down from there. Let’s chat.”

Trement, brimming with fury, and Vessery, completely stone-faced, climbed down from their fighters and stood abreast in front of them. The Z-95 swung around, blaster cannons pointing unambiguously at the TIEs. Trement opened her mouth to speak, and Dorset raised a finger. “Just listen. This is not a betrayal. Well…” Dorset shrugged. “I suppose that’s for you to say. But you’ve told me quite a story, and asked for a lot of trust, and mine is a world where that’s often deadly. I need leverage. I _have_ leverage. So there’s one last thing I’m going to ask of you to ensure I get out of here _alive_ and with my mission _complete_.”

Vessery raised his eyebrows, his first visible reaction since her arrival. “You leave us very little choice but to acquiesce, it seems. Now, how is this going to engender trust? Whatever you wish us to do, if we do so as hostages how are you going to know we would have done it anyway? That’s hardly an auspicious start to a working relationship.”

“No,” Dorset said, pointing a scolding finger at the colonel. “No. You do not get to put this on me. _I_ am not the one who should be held responsible for whether you’re trustworthy. And _I_ am not the one to convince if you wish to work with the New Republic. I’ll take your request back to my superiors, yes, and I’ll tell them that you helped. But my aim here is to get home with intel, not _business_.”

“So what do you want?” Trement asked.

“I want you to stay right here,” Dorset said with a shrug. “I want you to stay put, and keep your comms open. If the Hutts ask what a Headhunter with an Imperial transponder is doing wandering up there, I want you to tell them I’m with you, performing a search for an accomplice to your fugitive. And once I’m done, my partner will release your ships.”

“How do we know we can trust you?” Trement’s eyes narrowed.

Dorset finally allowed herself to smile. “That’s the difference between the New Republic and the Empire, captain. History shows you can trust me. And…as your boss said, you don’t have much choice.”

She clambered up the side of the Headhunter and into the cockpit. Securing her helmet under her chin, she saluted the two ex-Imperial pilots. “Thank you, genuinely, for your help. I hope we meet again.”

Within moments her engines were a faint glow in the distance. Trement and Vessery both stared after her, chewing over their new circumstances. Suddenly, Vessery laughed. “She is a truly incredible woman.”

Trement glared at him. “I’m going to kill you.” She spun on her heel and marched toward her TIE Fighter. “Right after I kill her.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chirpa’s flight plan was far more efficient than anything Dorset could’ve come up with herself. Target after target, she swung as close as she could safely manage to Hutt capital ships, fighter patrols, convoys, stations. The Headhunter’s high-tech sensor equipment recorded all manner of data about the ships they found: everything from sigils painted on the sides and trajectories to tonnage, energy readings, and life signs.

Dorset’s attention, meanwhile, was as diffuse as she could manage: keeping an eye on her screens, proximity alerts, and out the viewport at any armed vessel that so much as turned her direction. Her Imperial transponder was no promise, not even with help from Vessery—the Hutts could easily blow a suspicious third-party contractor out of the sky and lose no clout with the Empire after an obsequious apology.

For a while, it seemed that no one felt the need to pay her any attention—or at least, to be seen doing so. They flew from target to target, staying in normal traffic lanes as such as possible, blending in thanks to the shoddy appearance of the Z-95. Dorset did not let herself think their smooth flight would last.

Her paranoia was rewarded when a Krayt gunship settled in behind her. Dorset’s already high heartrate skyrocketed. “Chirpa!”

“The gunship has powered weapons but is not attempting to lock on, ma’am. However, it is also not hailing us. It appears to simply be following at a safe distance.”

“ _Safe_?!”

“A figure of speech, ma’am. Apologies. The gunship is maintaining its distance.”

“Is it scanning?”

“No, ma’am. Merely following.”

Dorset pondered, then sighed. “Then we’ll maintain current course. I’m going to stay in this traffic lane longer than planned—we’ve got to avoid any sudden movements or suspicious activity while that guy’s on our tail.”

“Acknowledged.”

Dorset flew anxiously for several torturously slow minutes. She jumped when her comm buzzed. “Quiel, this is Vessery. We were pinged by the Besadii, as you suspected. We confirmed that you’re with us. I think they’re getting fed up with our presence, though. I would strongly recommend breaking off whatever errand you’re on. And, if you could see it in your heart to return control of our fighters to us…”

Dorset let silence hang in the air for a moment after he trailed off. Her instinct was to refuse; she was not yet in the clear, and the moment she released her bargaining chip, they would be free to renege their association with her to protect their relationship with the Hutts; they could even chase her down and shoot her down themselves. _Whatever ulterior motive they may have, Chirpa’s lockdown is what stands between it and me._

“Chirpa,” she said, with her heart pounding in her ears, “release the TIE Fighters.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the droid replied, and Dorset’s console dinged to confirm deactivation.

On the comm she could hear the relief in Vessery’s voice. “Thank you, Quiel. If it turns out we can’t continue to bluff them then…you’ve just saved our lives.”

Dorset opened her mouth to offer platitudes, but the Hutt gunship immediately made them obsolete; no longer content to follow at a safe distance, its engines fired and it closed in, simultaneously acquiring a target lock on Dorset’s Headhunter. Her comm chimed.

Eyes wide, Dorset accepted the call. The gunship’s pilot, presumably, began speaking in Huttese, and Chirpa translated. “Unidentified Z-95 Headhunter, please confirm your affiliation with the Imperial forces based on the Carrack Cruiser _Jasper Circlet_.”

“Uh…yes, yes I am affiliated with them,” Dorset responded. “I am an independent contractor hired as a guide for their duration in the Nal Hutta system.”

“Thank you. Please remain on your current course until notified to the contrary.”

Dorset looked around, unsuccessfully trying to find someone to make significant eye contact with. “Chirpa?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“That’s…bad, isn’t it.”

“I cannot know with any certainty, but it does seem likely that the Hutts are questioning Colonel Vessery’s story and keeping a close eye on you while they investigate. Furthermore, it is likely that the ruse will not survive intense scrutiny.”

“Yeah.” Dorset checked her shields, then reviewed the orbital map to orient herself with her best escape routes. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I was thinking.”

She was the picture of a responsible civilian pilot for the next few, silent minutes, flying slowly within her assigned traffic lane, doing nothing whatsoever to make the pilot behind her twitch. But then, suddenly, Chirpa spoke up. “Power surge in the gunship’s weapons array.”

Dorset dove. No matter how long it had been since she was a front-line fighter pilot, no matter the ship, no matter the scenario, Dorset’s reflexes were hard to match. The gunship pilot, certainly, was not up to the task. Its laser blasts flashed by above Dorset’s starfighter, and once the gunship realized it had missed, Dorset was already well out of its sights—on her way, in fact, toward completing a loop that would bring her to a firing solution. Colonel Harleys had not overstated the Headhunter’s capabilities; she could barely tell she wasn’t flying an A-wing.

The gunship gunned its engines to escape Dorset’s trajectory, but destroying that ship was never her objective; with her pursuer off-target and on the defensive, it was time to run. She veered away from Nar Shaddaa and poured every bit of discretionary power she had into the engines.

The Headhunter leapt away from the traffic lanes and the gunship soon fell off her monitoring screen. Her hyperdrive control panel showed her quickly reaching sufficient distance from Nar Shaddaa’s mass shadow to safely jump to hyperspace. After all these near misses, she was finally free, a mostly successful mission.

And then, with melodramatic slowness, the slate-grey flank of a Hutt dreadnought slid across her forward viewport. _Of course. If that gunship was on my tail it was because someone ordered it. All of the Hutt’s defense forces are on alert for me specifically._ Her comm chimed. _Ah yes, and for Vessery._ “Can it wait, Colonel? I’m a little busy.”

“I am afraid not, Ms. Quiel, as we find ourselves in a similar situation. The Hutts are now sufficiently certain that we are _not_ Imperial that they seem quite willing to kill us all, and the moment Trement and I take off we will be flying into the teeth of the enemy. I find myself desperately wishing I had my other ship.”

_What other ship?_ “I’m sorry, Colonel, but like I said I can’t be of much use.”

“No allies you can call upon? No card up your sleeve?”

Dorset appreciated Vessery’s vagueness over the comm, but knew what he meant: _the New Republic must have many agents on Nar Shaddaa_. “No, Colonel. I’m on my own.”

Hutt starfighters were closing in, and the dreadnought’s guns were swinging around to target her. They hadn’t, fortunately, deployed everything they had to stop a single Z-95, but a squadron of fighters and a capital ship should be more than enough to do the job. Dorset pulled up, spraying an arc of indiscriminate blasterfire as she went to make the approaching starfighters flinch.

“ _Jasper Circlet_ is under fire. As I said before, it’s just the façade of a Carrack Cruiser, so we’ll have to evacuate, which means…well, our TIE pilots have no way to escape the system.”

Dorset took a deep breath and opened her mouth to apologize. Then she realized something. _Oh, I lied to him. I do have a card up my sleeve._

“Trement and I can stay here and scramble to find alternate transport off the moon,” Vessery continued. “But our other two pilots…I am afraid we won’t be able to acquire something in time to—”

“Colonel. Shut up. Don’t leave the hangar; I’ve got something for you.”

“I…understood.”

She muted the comm. “Chirpa? What’s the largest ship you have locked down in Gola’s Garage?”

“A Mobquet medium transport is the largest by both length and volume.”

“And that would be enough to carry four TIE Fighters, right?”

“If care is taken in their loading, yes.”

“Open it up, Chirpa.” She switched back to Vessery. “You still there?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a Mobquet medium transport in that hangar. Its entry ramp should’ve just opened. It’s all yours.”

“It’s…ours?”

“Don’t ask questions, Colonel. Load your TIEs, rescue your crew, and get the hell out of here.”

Dorset’s weaving had kept her clear of the Hutts’ laserfire so far, but the net was closing in, and she was no closer to her jump point. Something had to give. She took another deep breath and tightened her grip on the stick. _No A-wing pilot ever made a career out of being timid._

She wheeled around and dove back toward the dreadnought, which sat directly on her clearest escape route. She kept her route erratic, always evading the pursuing fighters’ fire, all the while coming straight at the broad warship. Its turbolasers struggled to track her, and in one case struck on of the fighters following her. Dorset squeezed her own trigger as often as anything came close to her targeting reticles—most often simply singing a wing or scaring off an attacker, but also destroying one turbolaser emplacement and one starfighter.

And then the dreadnought filled her entire forward canopy and Dorset pulled up hard on the stick. The pursuing pilots couldn’t keep up; some veered off, and others slowed down. Dorset shot up to the dorsal surface of the vessel, rolled ninety degrees, and gunned her engines until the heat alarms blared. She was clear, all enemies behind her, and now it was a simple race. Dorset allowed herself a smile.

Vessery’s voice came over the comm. “Ms. Quiel, we’re out of the atmosphere. They had no interest in stopping a random freighter. The cruiser crew has evacuated by shuttle, and we’re on our way to retrieve our other two TIEs. If we make it out of here, I hope we’re able to work together again.”

“If we make it out of here, Vessery.” A barrage of laser blasts got too close for comfort and her Headhunter rocked. “They’re going to try to blast you out of the sky the moment you interact with those TIE Fighters, though.”

“We thought of that. The cruiser is a loss—never was much more than engines, anyway. But that is still a weapon.”

“You going to ram one of their starships?”

“Think bigger, Ms. Quiel. The Hutts’ power is not their fleet—it is their information. _Jasper Circlet_ is now gaining momentum as it makes its way toward a hypercomm relay hub. Every intel report that comes to the Besadii from some quadrant of the galaxy hits that hub and gets analyzed there. I expect they’ll drop everything to save it.”

Dorset checked her screens and got a readout of the fiery hulk of a Carrack Cruiser, accelerating dangerously, closing in on a large satellite. And just as Vessery expected, every military resource in the area of the cruiser chased after it, trying to bring it down before it hit the satellite. The dreadnought behind her fell away, trying to join the fight.

The fighters, though, stayed on her tail. Most were losing ground as Dorset’s speedy fighter zipped away from Nar Shaddaa, but a couple of sleek interceptors stayed with her, straining Dorset’s juking skills. She was nearly out of the gravity well, but it was only a matter of time.

Then it happened. Her shields took the brunt of an ion blast, but right on its heels came a laser that lanced right through the weakened shields and struck between her quartet of engines. The sublight engines kept firing, and Dorset thought for a second that she’d come through unscathed. But then Chirpa spoke up as she noticed a blinking warning light. “Ma’am, the hyperdrive is damaged. I would not recommend engaging it; we cannot be certain it would function properly.” _No, it might just explode instead._

Dorset clenched her jaw, angry. Here she was, at the edge of the gravity well, moments from escape, but she had no way to leave. Out of options. Dead.

She stomped on her etheric rudder, swinging the ship around. _If I am to die, it won’t be alone._ The two little interceptors came on, still spraying laser and ion blasts at her. Dorset dodged each of them, coming steadily on, waiting, lining up a shot…and then firing. One of the interceptors went up in brilliant flames.

The other fell to evasive maneuvers, suddenly on defense as Dorset came inexorably on. It was fast, and maneuverable, but Dorset was a veteran. It took only a few moments for her to catch on to the pattern in the pilot’s movements: he juked starboard, one too many times, and fell right into Dorset’s targeting reticle, and died for it.

She started looking for more targets when her comm beeped again. “Ms. Quiel, you are facing the wrong way.”

“My hyperdrive got hit. I’m not making it out of here.”

“I detest fatalism, Ms. Quiel. Looks like it’s time to return the favor of providing this freighter, wouldn’t you say?”

“We’re nowhere near each other. I won’t make it.”

A waypoint lit up on her forward screen, a few thousand klicks further out from Nar Shaddaa. “Just make your way there. We’re on our way.”

Dorset didn’t argue. She looped back around, turning tail to Nar Shaddaa once more and making her way toward the rendezvous coordinates Vessery had sent. In the corner of her screen, the marker representing Vessery’s freighter disappeared. “Chirpa, were they destroyed?”

“No, ma’am. The transport has jumped to hyperspace.”

For just a moment, her heart sank. They’d abandoned her. _But then why offer the hope of rescue? What was the point of that?_ She plunged on. There was nothing else she could do.

She was nearly at the coordinates when a big box of a ship appeared out of nowhere in her forward canopy. She flinched, and almost opened fire. But no—it was the Mobquet medium transport, dropping out of hyperspace right in the spot Vessery said to meet him.

“Trement was very eager to show of her skills with microjumps,” Vessery said over the comm. “Well, no, she was quite reluctant to stick around any longer than necessary, but she is very good at plotting microjumps and I’m in charge. Tractor beam incoming.”

Dorset felt the ship jolt as the tractor beam locked on. She was tethered to the ship now, and could finally, after what felt like hours, take her hand off the stick. The transport jumped to hyperspace, and she sat back, wiped sweat from her face, and cried.

 

 

The Mobquet transport reverted to realspace in the middle of nowhere. Two of the TIE Fighters launched from its crowded bay, providing a modicum of defense in case they were followed and allowing space for Dorset to land her Headhunter. She squeezed it in, then excitedly leapt from the cockpit, so very glad to be able to stand and stretch.

Colonel Vessery was waiting for her with a smile on his face. “Good to see you again, Ms. Quiel. I cannot overstate how glad I am that we both made it out of there alive.”

“Thank you for the rescue, Colonel.”

“And thank you for the rescue as well, madam.”

Dorset stood awkwardly in front of him for a moment. She sighed. “Can I hug you?”

He laughed, and put out his arms. She threw hers around him, grateful for contact with another sentient being, grateful for his help, grateful to be alive. She pulled away after a moment. “So, shall we get this hyperdrive back in action?”

It didn’t take them long. Between Chirpa’s expertise, Vessery and Dorset’s hands, and the tools and parts stored on this ship—Dorset hoped the owner had insurance—they had everything they needed to temporarily patch the hyperdrive up. Dorset knew it would get a full work-up once they reached Coruscant.

Vessery pulled off his gloves as he stepped out from under the Headhunter and stood straight. He reached out a hand to Dorset along with another flashy smile. She took it and shook. “It has been a pleasure working with you, Ms. Quiel. While of course not everything went to plan, I think we made for a very effective team.”

Dorset laughed. “Yes, I’d say we did. And, Vessery…now that we’re away from Nar Shaddaa, my mission is over. And therefore, so is that identity. I’m Captain Dorset Konnair.”

Vessery shook her hand again. “Nice to meet you, Captain Konnair.”

Dorset climbed the ladder into the cockpit, settled in, and donned her helmet. “I’ll see you again, Colonel. Stay safe out there.”

Vessery stepped out of the way, saluted, and watched the Headhunter leave the bay and leap to hyperspace. “Trement,” he called over the comm, “I think it worked. Hope you’re ready to work for the New Republic.”

 


End file.
